


Negotiations for Gifted Beginners

by papyrocrat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papyrocrat/pseuds/papyrocrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>  for the Balthazar/Crowley square on my <a href="http://spnpairingbingo.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spnpairingbingo.livejournal.com/"></a><b>spnpairingbingo</b> card.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Negotiations for Gifted Beginners

**Author's Note:**

>   for the Balthazar/Crowley square on my [](http://spnpairingbingo.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://spnpairingbingo.livejournal.com/)**spnpairingbingo** card.

Balthazar doesn’t see the need to do anything so melodramatic as _falling_ when one can just as easily help oneself to the fine silverware and slip out a side door while the owners are otherwise occupied.

Silverware, crown jewels of the Queen of Sheba. Tomato, tomahto.

Not that Balthazar lacks the necessary flair for theatrics, of course. But, discretion being the better part of valor and a necessary component of smuggling out one’s ill-gotten gains, Balthazar simply abandons ship when it becomes clear that the lower orders of angels are entirely irrelevant to whether the Who-the-fuck-cares-chesters are equally as pigheaded as their archangelic counterparts, or slightly more so.

Earth seems to be the place to go, for all it's clearly more trouble than it's worth, seeing how even Gabriel and his insatiable lust for attention managed to keep his head down amongst the humans for millennia.

Must avoid America, though. Dreadful continent, reeking of gasoline, preservatives, and sanctimonious little siblings who are entirely too enamored of the good fight, from sea to nauseatingly polluted sea. Europe is much more Balthazar's speed, with its nightlife as dense and vibrant as its cathedrals are antiquated and empty.

Appropriate.

He locates a vessel easily enough, a readily agreeable man who fits as neatly into Vauxhall Cross as the banknotes and designer drugs do in his wallet. The man's flat is minimalist and spacious with a wide, empty living area. Perfect for a summoning ritual. Balthazar takes a tentative quality-control sniff of the vessel's product before tossing down some water, painting a bit of Enochian, and muttering an incantation for "whichever one of you nasty buggers won't insult me with your overwhelming incompetence."

His grace prickles as the air rearranges itself into a pile of pure smarm that immediately lives up to its reputation. Crowley.

"You rang?"

"I suppose I did," he says, frowning dubiously at the makeshift sigils glinting across the floor.

"First time dealing with a demon, is it?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure, no."

"Well, there's no need to be nervous. I'll be gentle, darling. Not that I never bite, but you angels are a lot less yummy than you think you are."

Balthazar ignores the bait. "That's comforting."

"Speaking of comfort, I hope you don't mind, I brought my own." Crowley pulls out a dark bottle at which Balthazar's vessel salivates shamelessly. He pours out two, and lifts a quick salute. "To sinning."

"Indeed." Balthazar takes a heady, incautious sip. "So I'm almost flattered you took this call yourself, Crowley."

“I'm the very model of personalized services. Anyway, what with all the apocalyptic fracas across the pond, it's good to have an excuse to visit the mother country, you know?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Never a good idea, but I like your attitude, so let's get right to it. I like a few of these little trinkets in your pocket. And you need to, um, fly under the radar. Though, pro tip, I’d keep the actual flying to a minimum.”

“And you can provide me that protection.”

“King of the Crossroads. Well, I can’t help you get in and out of heaven; that’s probably done with the inside intel. But yeah, security detail, convincingly exaggerating rumors of your demise, keeping your favorite haunts off the celestial Google maps, I can have that done to your specifications.”

There it is. “Teaching your boys and girls a few new tricks, am I?”

“Yes." Crowley holds up a palm in a mockery of appeasement and consideration. "I thought we might run into the whole treason against Heaven; rending the bonds of brotherhood, blah blah-“

“Fuck Heaven.” There are no brotherly bonds, since Michael and Lucifer decided their little pissing match was more important than the rest of them staying alive. “I’m not representing anyone here, Crowley. Just me. Same as you.”

“A pragmatist. I respect that.”

“So what’s the going rate?”

“Souls.”

"Souls, plural." It's not a question, but Crowley nods anyway. “Mmmm, I seem to have left my backup consciousness in my other vessel.”

“I don’t mean yours. Grace does no one any good.”

Isn’t that the truth. Out of the mouths of red-eyed abominations.

“I need human souls. As many as you can get. Is that going to be a problem?"

Balthazar scoffs. "We're all thieves and scoundrels here." And there, and everywhere.

"Not philosophically. Logistically."

“I’ll have you know, this vessel was an art thief.” Well, he’d pirated filthy pornography regularly. Close enough.

"So, I'll spare you the introduction to illicit transations." Crowley puts up his feet, neatly crossing his ankles on the glass top of the coffee table. "Human beings, they need things. More importantly, they _want_ things. They know they shouldn't, which makes them all the more susceptible to our supply-side economy when they get desperate enough to start asking around."

"And they hand over their eternal souls to satisfy one of those wants?"

"No refunds or exchanges. Or satisfaction, really, but keep that part to yourself before you seal the deal. All they really want is a guarantee of something, anything, and that you can deliver." Crowley indulges in a shit-eating grin. "Much easier these days, now that so many of them don't entirely believe in souls to begin with. Think they're getting something for nothing."

"Well. That I can sell."

"Fantastic. I'll need that holy little sapphire as a show of good faith."

Balthazar pulls it out of his heavy, clanking pocket and tosses it over without a thought. “So do we seal it with a shag?”

“Eh, showmanship. There’s no soul in this transaction.”

“Still.” Balthazar shrugs. It's not like there's anything better to do.  



End file.
